


Dance

by Path



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-19
Updated: 2011-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marquise Spinneret Mindfang knows this place is about to blow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance

Marquise Spinneret Mindfang winds her story to a close in the manner of the best of anecdotes, a simple nod to an early point in the tale, refreshed, recycled, made light through repetition. She smiles indulgently at her audience, a pair of cull-waiting lowbloods she'd never bother speaking to if there weren't a particular image she wished to cultivate tonight.

She reclines in her chair, a glass of champagne between the fingers of one hand as the lowbloods laugh as if their lives depended on it, which of course they do. Her hair is piled atop her head, and she wears a glittering dress of blacks and midnight blues, shivering in motion whenever she laughs or takes a drink. It is far from her usual and she does not enjoy it for its own merits, no more than she enjoys the company of lowbloods or the mediocre refreshment. Like everything else tonight, it is the effect of it all Mindfang enjoys, and not the reality.

A servant is at her side; he is not hers. A tray is held out, a cloth and silver plate bearing a tiny morsel. She does not need to ask; when she regards it, the man gestures across the room, lowering his eyes politely. She glances, and yes, there he is, a figure in silhouette, posed comfortably in a high-backed chair and waiting for her eyes to fall on him. As second after they do, he shifts, the lights catching his face, filling his eyes and horns with goldenrod and shading his gills, his fins deep violet. He looks up lazily, a smile cutting a third scar across his face.

Mindfang takes the appetizer, just a sliver, from the plate, and the servant backs away bowing. She places it on her tongue, allows flavour to dance and nearly send shivers through her. It is not poisoned, of course; tonight is not a night for that sort of manoeuvring. It is of a different sort. Her eyes, for that moment, do not leave his. She can see them perfectly, as clearly as if he sat across the low table and not across the room. Their eyes meet for only that moment, and then he glances away as if dismissing her.

As she looks away in turn, he stands. He cannot bear to miss her attention, even staged as it is. His move, and he comes to reclaim her, tossing his violet cloak over his shoulder and adjusting his military uniform; the high neck, sharp shoulders, double row of buttons a tribute to his accomplishments. She cares not at all for them. His deeds are worthless. His merits, nothing. He knows the only way he can impress her, and so he stands, and begins to cross the distance to her.

She mirrors him. She slinks through the club as if the lights there were made for her passage, the rest of the world rotating around her in a storm-spiral. Nearby, as she nears the center of the room, a girl trembles among the many watching lowbloods. She has no badge, no symbol to indicate her rank or status. Mindfang changes course, draws the girl towards her magnetically. She runs her hand through the girl's hair, raking her power through the girl's mind with the same casual carelessness. The girl is in her arms in seconds, Mindfang's mark on her brow, and Mindfang does not care who sees it, as long as he does. Her lips caress the girl's, slow faked urgency on Mindfang's part and no resistance whatsoever from the lowblood. She knows he will be disgusted at her wantonness, horrified at her casual disregard for standards. The girl might be green-blooded or she might be brown, and he will have no more clue to it than Mindfang does.

She pulls the girl into the light, puts the two of them on display for him. A long, endless instant later, she discards the girl, allows her to stumble back into the club's shadows and reel there. What she does now is immaterial. Not so far away, now, her opponent rips a golden brooch from his chest, and allows his cloak to fall to the floor behind him. He pushes his sleeves up, strips his gloves from his hands, tossing them too to the side. His fingers are also a violet hue, fading into grey where they touch his hands. He balls one hand in a fist, cracking knuckles in one hand, then the other. He wears a look of contempt; his usual look, but tainted with something more. That is hers.

Mindfang steps into the center of the room, and he is there, matching her, waiting, and trying not to curl his lip too much in disdain for her shameless actions. Still, his eyes flare brightly beneath the lights, fierce delight and enjoyment as he revels in his hatred for her.

"Well, well, well," she croons. "If it isn't Orphaner Douchescar."

"I don't appreciate you slandering my name, Spiderbitch," he replies. They are so close, a breath away.

"Thank you for the snack," she offers, blue lips curving in a smirk. "It was quite delicious."

"My pleasure," he returns. Neither blinks. The world is suspended.

"Is that Muenster cheese tickling my flavour receptacles?" she inquires.

"Of course," his voice savours their interaction, caresses it. "Muenster is like edible lactose gold."

"Agreed," she says. She enjoys this, the chance to exchange pleasantries before the inevitable. It makes it so much more fulfilling, if they pretend to civility first. But still, she cannot hold in her ecstasy, the full extent of her passion for him, for long. The night is too young to waste it on idle talk. "Shall we dance?" she asks, and a lesser man might mistake her tone for innocence. Her eyes are wide.

"Let's," he says, and she knows more than ever how badly he has wanted her, how difficult it was for him to follow his careful plans and staged images, and not merely rush for her throat with his fangs.

And then they do rush for each other, as Mindfang hurls her dice and Dualscar's harpoon is in hand. Glittering points of light make a kaleidoscope of eight-sided refraction; one white-violet beam opposes. They do dance, then, positioning and turning and repositioning through the club, and thoroughly and passionately try to murder each other. She feels a thrill coursing through her, that none other could provide, a racing shivering light blossoming within her as explosions of white energy bloom around her.

Blood from red to green spatters the walls as lowbloods are caught in their fire. Dualscar is screaming curses at her, teeth grinding against teeth, and Mindfang howls her fury like the Mother Grub's wrath. Finally she has him, a die lodged in his shoulder on the luckiest of rolls, the 8 barely visible through the welling violet blood. He falls, grasping for his harpoon, but her boot is on his wrist before he can reach it.

A second passes; they pant, eyes wild and hungry amid the screams of the lowbloods. Finally, weaponless, Dualscar gives. "....Truce," he says.

Mindfang can only laugh as she falls on him.

**Author's Note:**

> Uh did I just write a Ke$ha songfic? God, I feel so confused about myself right now.


End file.
